I Love Him
by Professor Cricket
Summary: Sirius is still suffering from the lingering after-effects of Azkaban; Remus does his best to take care of him at Grimmauld Place. Mild SBRL slash, but rating is for dramatic content.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer: I'm not JKR, these characters aren't mine, and I'm not making any money from this.**

**A/N: This story assumed a romantic relationship between Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. There is mild slash content; the rating is chiefly for dramatic content, however. Coping with physical ailments is not pretty.**

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I Love Him

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place is chaos: the Weasleys are teasing each other, and Harry and Hermione are laughing right along with them (thank goodness; that boy needs to laugh more). Sirius seems to be in his own little world. I think the noise is too much for him. I think there are too many people in the room. But he's trying to acclimate himself to noise and to real people, in preparation for his eventual freedom. Otherwise I'd chase them all out.

A teacup breaks, shatters on the floor. No one seems to notice - no, that's not quite right; Molly is yelling at Fred and George for breaking it. Sirius sighs heavily, fetches a dustpan and hand-broom, and goes to sweep up the wreckage. I'm still sitting at the table, just watching him. Despite the physical pain he feels every day - another remnant of Azkaban, one he'll probably never be rid of - he still moves with exceptional grace, like a cat padding across the room. When he and Jamey and Peter were learning the Animagus spell for me, I was certain that Sirius would be a tiger. Or a panther.

I watch him squat beside the shattered teacup, ready to sweep. Suddenly he's still. Is his hand quivering? I'm not sure.

Yes, it is. He's trembling now. I immediately leave my seat and go to him, wrap my arms around him. His whole body is shaking now, as he stares at that damned teacup.

He's my world, and has the center of my attention. I have only peripheral awareness that Molly is shooing everyone else out of the kitchen. I don't know if she wants to spare Sirius his dignity or is ashamed of him. I don't care, either.

Sirius looks up from the teacup and stares at me.

"Moony?" His voice is raw and ragged.

"I'm here, Padfoot." I'm as comforting as I know how to be.

"They're dead, Moony." His voice is a hiss. He stares back down at the teacup, and I realize now he's looking at the broken remains of a teacup in the house at Godric's Hollow.

"I know," I say. I hold him close.

"I can't find the baby."

I stoke his hair. "The baby's fine, Padfoot. Breathe. Try to breathe."

But his breath is shallow and rapid. "Where's the baby?" It's a scream now, not a whisper.

Harry pushes in through the kitchen door. He must have stayed close; I can imagine him pulling away from Molly, maybe yelling at her.

"Sirius?" He kneels on the floor, beside his godfather.

Sirius glances up at him; a look of agony splashes across his face. "Oh, Merlin, Jamey," he whispers, "I'm so sorry. I can't find the baby." He grabs Harry's face and pulls him close, pressing his forehead against he godson's, something I must have seen him do a thousand times with Jamey when one or the other of them was upset.Often it was after James had been shot down yet again by Lily.

"I'm not Jamey," says Harry quietly, and I vaguely wonder if that's the first time that he's ever spoken his father's nickname. "I'm Harry."

Sirius pulls back a little, and strokes the messy hair. "I can't find the baby," he repeats.

There's a sudden smell, like burned peanuts, and I realize that Sirius has lost control of his bladder; another remnant of Azkaban. A small yellow pool develops beneath him.

Harry pulls back, a little horrified.

"I'm sorry, Jamey!"

He's getting worse instead of better; I've never seen one of these episodes last so long. I grab Harry and drag him back. "He needs you now," I hiss at him.

Then I drop to my knees and lean into Sirius. I hold him right against me - never mind now that I'm kneeling in a puddle of piss - and I whisper in his ear. "That's not Jamey, my love," I tell him. "It's the baby. The baby's all grown up."

He puts his arms around me. His grip tightens, and he buries his face in my shoulder. He's crying now. I still can't tell if the episode is over or not, if he's still weeping over the bodies his friends or if he's crying because he's ashamed.

He looks up from my shoulder, to the frightened teenager next to me.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he whispers.

He's back.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," says Harry. I can't tell if the boy believes it - he still looks shocked by what he's seen - but at least he says the words. I wish Sirius would believe them, but I know he won't.

I take out my wand, clean up the mess that hasn't soaked into my robes, clean Sirius, clean myself. I help my lover stand. "We're going to bed now, Sirius," I say quietly. His slips his arms down, around my waist. We stand together for a long moment.

At long last, we break apart, but still snuggle close together. His head is bent down to rest on my shoulder, his arm is about my waist. My arm is around his. We go out the kitchen door, Harry trailing along behind us.

Molly hasn't done her work very well: they were out of the kitchens, but Hermione and various Weasleys line the hallway like some kind of perverse honor guard. Sirius won't meet their eyes.

We go upstairs, Harry still following behind. We got to our bedroom; Harry waits in the door. I don't think he's ever understood that it's _our_ bedroom before this.

I get Sirius ready for bed - out of his clothes, into a nice set of clean pajamas. He sits on the side of the bed - he still hasn't looked at Harry once - and I sit behind him. I brush his hair; he loves that, has loved it ever since we were at school together. It's part of our ritual.

He leans back, half-sitting, waiting for me. I don't give a damn if Harry's still watching: I lean into Sirius and kiss him. Our kiss lingers, and there are a few tender caresses, but Sirius is in no shape for lovemaking, not even the tender, gentle, healing sex we've become accustomed to.

I slide back the covers of the bed, and he slips in. I pull the covers up, tucking him in. I sing to him a little, smoothing his hair, until he falls asleep.

I stand, watching him. I can only imagine that there's a look of complete adoration on my face.

I hear a cough from the doorway. I'm a little surprised that Harry's still here. I look at him, and nod. He comes into our bedroom, and stands beside me.

He looks down at Sirius, who's sleeping peacefully now.

"How do you find the strength to take care of him like that?" he asks me. Foolish boy.

"I love him."


	2. And I Love Him

**Disclaimer: They're not my characters, and I'm not making any money from this.**

**A/N: This is a companion piece to "I Love Him," told from Sirius' POV. Like "I Love Him," it assumes a romantic and sexual relationship between Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, and contains mild to moderate slash content.**

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**...And I Love Him**

I wake up in the middle of the night, and I'm not afraid. I smile.

Ever since Azkaban, I haven't slept well; no real surprise there. I didn't exactly enjoy the sleep of the charmed in prison. Being on the run for the year after Buckbeak and I escaped from Hogwarts wasn't much easier, since it rarely - all right, never - meant a warm, comfortable bed. Even as Padfoot, with a nice fur coat, I could never really get the cold of Azkaban out of my bones.

After that, I lived for a while with Moony at his place - a bizarre Muggle concoction, three rooms, and "pre-fabricated," whatever that means. (The Ministry has no way to assess its value since it's apparently not a real building, so he can get away with owning it, despite the restrictions on werewolves having property.) Then we moved into Grimmauld Place. At Moony's – where I once again slept in the arms of my one and only lover – when I woke at night, I was immediately afraid. It was the same here, too, to start with. I certainly didn't have warm memories of the comforts of home to drive away the cold.

But one evening, Moony came home with a nice, brand-new, crispy-clean set of pajamas and made it perfectly clear that I was expected to wear them. I've always hated the damned things, since before we were in school even. I'm much happier in a pair of boxers – or even sleeping in the nuddy. I refused.

He gave me a heavy sigh, the kind that let me know I was terribly trying his patience, and said, "Just try it for one night, Padfoot."

I have to admit that it pleases me endlessly that just as I'm the one person who can make him come so hard and so loud that he destroys our silencing charm, so too I'm the one person who can frustrate him and make him lose patience. A thousand Weasleys with a thousand pranks apiece would never shake him, but I can drive him crazy with a simple 'no.'

But since I'm no fan of marital discord – in mine and Moony's case, anyway; there are a few select cases in which I approve of it heartily – I agreed to wear the damn pajamas. My plan: I'd wear them once, denounce them in the morning, and be done with it.

I went to bed grumbling ("Oh, be nice, Paddy, and you'll get a lovely blowjob in the morning," wheedled my mate), sure I'd wake up twisted and tangled and bloody uncomfortable. But when I woke in the night, for the first time in a long time, I wasn't afraid. I was warm – hot and sweaty, even – but I felt safe and secure. Apparently, as far as my body is concerned, there's preciously little difference between the bone-penetrating cold of Azkaban and the night-time chill you get when your lover is hogging the covers. But it knows the difference between _coldness_ and _warmth_: _coldness_ is ever-present danger, fear, and terror; _warmth_ is comfort, security, and a snoring werewolf.

So I admitted defeat, and kept the pajamas.

Now when I wake in the night – even when my Moony is away on one of his missions – I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid now, and happily, and I'm not alone either. My eyes, once opened, are immediately drawn to the dying embers of a ball of light – a Luminescence Charm that Moony casts only when I've gone to bed after having one of my episodes. (That's what Moony calls them, anyway. He was quite annoyed with Tonks when she told us that the Muggles call them "periodic psychotic breaks" – or something like that, anyway. No sweets for Tonks for a week after that: no one breaks Moony's house rules, not even the Weasley twins, not even Molly.)

So I know I've had an episode. I really can't remember it, though I vaguely remember crying at Harry.

Harry. I hope –

I shake Moony. He's awake instantly.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, lover," I tell him. "I was just trying to remember what happened today. Was Harry...?" Suddenly, I can't ask him what I need to know.

"He was there for part of it," Moony admits.

"The bad part?"

"I'm afraid so."

"The worst part?"

"Yes, love. But I think he's all right. Talk to him in the morning, let him see you being your old annoying self. Trust me, he'll forget it even happened."

"Do you think so?" I know Moony would never lie to me, but I can't quite believe him.

"He's young," says Moony, "and what's more, he _wants_ to forget. Once he sees you're back to normal, he'll make himself believe that it didn't happen, or at least that the worst of it didn't." He shrugs.

Funny thing about my Moony: when we were kids, he always insisted on wearing pajamas. Even when he knew I was going to creep into his bed or he into mine (pretty much every night, really) he still insisted on wearing the damn things. Divesting him of them became a little game, but once we'd finished loving he'd try to struggle into them again, no matter how tired he was. (I took it as a challenge to wear him out thoroughly every time we made love, to keep him out of the things, but still somehow I'd wake up in the morning hand find him half-dressed. Once he'd tried to put his bottoms on his top and had stuck his arms through the lugholes and trapped himself; how he fell and stayed asleep like that I don't know. I'd laughed so hard that Jamey and Peter came to find out what the matter was.)

But now... now, my Moony sleeps in the nude. Claims he has for a while now, too. I'm happy, because one pair of pajamas to struggle with when we want to make love in the middle of the night is plenty.

We cast the silencing charm together – we discovered long ago, in school, that combining our magics far more than doubles the strength of the spell – and I briefly wonder how long it will take before we shatter the magical silence we've created. (In truth, we've only done it twice. The first time only Dumbledore was in the house and that canny old man never gave us a single hint that he'd heard a thing; the second time we had a nearly full house – not the children, thank Merlin – but Tonks hadn't been able to meet our eyes without giggling for quite a while, not until Alastor Moody chewed her out for being immature and then launched into the most pornographic joke I've ever heard in my life.)

The charm held this time, which is just as well, since the kids are here.

Basking in the afterglow, he smiles at me, and snuggles close. "You're warm," he murmurs. "Nice."

"It's your sinful nudist ways that keep you cold, Moony," I tell him. He chuckles. There's no zealot like a convert.

"Full moon in a few days," I say.

"Mmmph," says Moony.

"Are you going to spend it here?"

"Yes."

"Good."

I don't need to say, "I'll change into Padfoot and stay with you the whole time," because he knows I will. I don't need to say, "I'll try to keep you from hurting yourself," because he knows that I will. I don't need to say, "I'll carry you upstairs afterwards, and bathe you and treat whatever wounds you do get, and put you to bed with gentle kisses," because he knows I'll do that, too.

"I love you," I tell him. I don't need to say that, either, because he knows it, but I like to.

"I love you, too," he whispers. If it's a race to see who falls asleep first, then he's won.

I stroke his hair. He's strong for me when I need him to be. And I'm strong for him when he needs me to be.

He loves me.

And I love him.


End file.
